His face clouded with confusion. “Huh?”
“Look,” I said soothingly. “I know you’ve thought a lot about this. But sometimes, to see the whole truth, you have to step back from what’s personal in order to take in the bigger picture.”
“What picture is that?”
“What does your father do, Hollis?”
“He works for a pharmaceutical company. TriGen. He’s the CFO. But what does that have to—”
“Did you know my dad worked for that same company? In one of the manufacturing plants. And when he got injured on the job, TriGen wouldn’t pay his workers’ comp claim. Not only that, but they fired him and countersued in order to set an example for their other workers. My dad stood up to them—I told you he was brave—but between his medical bills and legal fees, he never had a chance. He lost everything in a matter of months. So when he drove to the beach on a clear night when the stars were shining and shot himself, it was his gift to us. TriGen dropped the suit and paid his bills. Not because they cared, obviously, but even they knew better than to bring a grieving widow into the courtroom.”
“Jesus. Fuck. I’m sorry, man. That’s terrible. I had no idea.”
I kept smiling. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot of terrible in this world. Because there are a lot of things people like you don’t want to see. Or change. It’s what you’ve been taught, but it doesn’t have to be your destiny.”
Hollis shot me a dark look. “What do you mean, people like me?”
“I mean, people who refuse to accept that a force they’ve always seen as monstrous is actually something different altogether.”
“Like what?”
“Like a hero. A human one, but a hero nonetheless.”
His eyes bulged. “What are you talking about? I don’t fucking believe that.”
“You sure?”
“Yes! I’m absolutely sure!”
“Then I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. And I was sorry. I’d done what I could. Like so many heroes before me, I’d looked to the equinox and strived to bring balance to an unbalanced world. But balance was more fleeting than I’d realized. If Hollis had already gone so far as to create his own mythology in order to avoid having to point the finger anywhere but at his own values, there wasn’t much I could’ve done to persuade him in the first place. He didn’t want logic; he preferred tilting at windmills.
So maybe I really did know the ending to this story.
“You know those nineteen people who died here? In that fire?” I asked softly.
“Sure. Of course.”
“Well, they weren’t the only ones who suffered. Their loved ones did too. Maybe their suffering was even greater—having to live in the aftermath and watch those killers profit and get away with murder.”
“Yeah, maybe. What does that have to do with anything?”
I leaned close to whisper in his ear. “It has to do with the fact that you were right, Hollis. The Phantom isn’t a he. Or a who. The Phantom is all of us who haven’t forgotten or forgiven that one moment of agony and injustice. Who are still called, every generation, in the name of equity, to try to meet our counterpart from the other side halfway. But when justice isn’t given—and it never is—that’s when we’re forced to take something else.”
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“Retribution.”
Disbelief became terror when Hollis saw me raise the knife and understood what I planned to do with it. He recoiled, scrambling back to get away from me, but with the steep drop and the water behind him, there was nowhere to go.
“C. J.!” he cried out, holding his hands up. “Why? Why are you doing this? What did I do?”
I moved in swiftly then. Gripping the hunting knife, pinning him down with my knee, I felt no anger in my heart, no wrath or vengeance, just the cool breeze of certitude. Hadn’t I known this was how it would be? Monsters never understood they were the ones in need of slaying.
“Cautionary tales aren’t meant to be told,” I whispered before I brought the knife down. Before the blood began to spray. “They’re meant to be heard. So we’ll keep telling this one, over and over, for as long as we have to. Until someday, somehow, you finally begin to listen.”
No one said much after Tino finished his story, but I think we were all glad Jaila had the knife and not him.
Water was running pretty low, so we looked for somewhere to refill our canteens, which took us an hour out of our way. The stream we found was barely a gurgle of a thing, but it was enough.
Everyone had broken down into their little cliques again. Except Tino. He was by himself, leaning against a tree when I noticed Jenna approach him.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Yeah you are.”
“We’ve all been through . . . stuff.” Jenna’s shoulders were rolled forward, and she wasn’t looking Tino in the eyes. “Just, if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”
Tino laughed. “You think I’d want to talk to you?”
I’m pretty sure if he’d spoken like that to Lucinda, she would have cut off his balls, but Jenna just offered him a shrug. “Maybe. And if you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Then she walked off again. I was expecting him to keep laughing, but the moment Jenna was out of sight, Tino’s bravado fled. It was like the iron in his spine melted, and the tree was the only thing holding him up anymore.
“You think he killed someone?” Cody was asking Sunday and Georgia when I wandered back to where they were sitting on the ground.
Sunday shook her head. “No way. He’s full of it.”
“But all that stuff he was saying about Lucinda and me being rich?” Georgia said. “I mean, my parents have money, but we’re not like that. We give to our church, and I volunteer and—”
“Don’t take it personally.” Sunday laid her hand on Georgia’s, but Georgia pulled it away immediately.
“I’m not—”
“She’s just being nice, Georgia,” Cody said.
Georgia scrambled to her feet. “We should get going. Let’s go.” And then she stormed off the way we’d been walking earlier, leaving Cody and Sunday to gather their things and follow.